


On Cat food and other non-vegan slices of life

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Chef Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire is charming ok he just doesn't know it, How to Seduce an Angry Socialist with Food 101, I won't apologize, Multi, Roommates, Sort Of, so many cats and cat related puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: "You don’t look convinced," says Enjolras."I can’t see this restaurant going vegan. We’re in France.""Two percent of France’s population avoids animal products to some extent," Enjolras crosses his arms. "They’re a valuable target group.""And yet," Grantaire wags a finger at Enjolras, "It strikes me that 98 percent is the bigger number."a.k.a. Enjolras and Grantaire meet, clash & do some other stuff with food along the way





	On Cat food and other non-vegan slices of life

**Author's Note:**

> this is very self-indulgent and was written to make me feel better when I was down. Hope you like it anyway, mostly fluff with some angst.

Experimenting is what Grantaire has always loved most about cooking. The process of throwing in ingredients wildly and tweaking, adjusting everything a bit until he is satisfied – he likes that process. At least, he likes it while cooking because when creating dishes he eventually reaches satisfaction, as opposed to the impossible frustration he usually works himself into when he picks up the paints he still keeps, nine whole years after dropping out of art school.

Grantaire loves art, in the classical sense of painting and sculptures and what not, he just isn’t sure art loves him back enough. (Nor do art professors, and after the fifteenth time somebody told him he was wasting his potential, he found himself agreeing, though not in the way his professors had hoped.)

Culinary school had been an Experience, to say the least. Food, like most things one pours passion into, can also be art. And it’s an art which, for once, Grantaire does not mind sharing with the world.

He enjoys the look on a patron’s face when they taste something they really dig. The way their eyes will widen, shocked by the flavors and how they are layered.

(At least, that is what Grantaire tells himself those wide eyed looks, usually accompanied by a hand covering the mouth in an attempt to keep the food in a mouth begging to drop open, interprets into it. Seriously, the hand always covers the art. He’s done empirical studies on that shit by now.) Grantaire watches people taste his dishes as often as he can. It makes him happy when people are happy with his food.

This guy isn’t eating anything though.

He is sat at the table for Pontmercy – Twelve People, Private Party, Start at 8, Open End – and he is the only one that hasn’t ordered anything to eat. Instead, he is scowling at the artfully folded napkin – Gavroche has been showing amazing promise in that department – and occasionally interrupting his scowl to have a conservative sip of his Mostly-Fruit-Syrup Mocktail (sin alcohol – Grantaire checked.)

It won’t do.

His first thought is that the guy turns his nose up at this restaurant. The good reviews they consistently snag aren’t _nothing_. Grantaire knows that, but the guy has the polished look of someone who grew up with the figurative silver spoon, so perhaps he is used to nothing less than four stars for all meals. Though upon closer inspection, Grantaire muses that he has an air of defiance about him. 

It’s in the angry set of his brows, the well-worn frown lines around his mouth. It’s in the way that in blatant contradiction to the obviously custom-tailored suit he fits into like it was poured onto him by the Lord’s angels, his blond curls are unruly, a few of them dangling out of the bun he has put no effort into sleeking back. It is in the circles beneath his eyes that don’t speak of a high-quality skincare routine most of Grantaire’s Known Rich People praise. So, Grantaire scraps the idea that this guy is some food snob, ahem, pardon him, connoisseur who turns his nose up at his cooking.

The second thought he gets – and he really shouldn’t keep watching that otherwise jovial table of friends so intently – is that, possibly, the guy just isn’t hungry. But ever so often he catches glimpses the golden god throws at the dishes around him. Sitting next to Golden God is an equally handsome if slightly less delicate looking dark-skinned man, whose glasses are fogged up a little by the steam rising from the soup freshly placed down in front of him. Tall Dark & Handsome grabs Golden God’s hand and presses a supportive kiss to the back of it, mouthing something while leaning in closer to Golden God’s ear. Golden God turns thoughtful, the frown softens a little. He squeezes back, somewhat mollified, and nods.

That must be Golden God’s boyfriend then, Grantaire thinks. It fits. Why shouldn’t the two most handsome men on god’s green earth find their way to one another? It just fits.

Upon walking in, the kitchen staff had hedged bets on what these guys do, because every single person at that table is uncommonly attractive. Most bets had been friends that met on the runway, some of them certainly have the eccentric look for it – his glance goes to one person, a redhead with long, long red curls, hanging down their back with various botanicals interwoven and two buns on their head, dubbed Flower Power by the servers – but others are indeed less runway and more ‘wow fuck me against a wall’ – here he looks at a guy so large and muscular he almost needs two chairs to sit in. Said guy, dubbed Big Kahuna for his wind-tousled hair and the intimidating cut that slashes one of his thick eyebrows in half, is also the loudest. His voice, when he speaks between bites of his food, booms like an erupting volcano, spreads all across the restaurant room, blessedly entirely cleared out tonight. They’d definitely get noise complaints from elderly couples that come for the food and stay for the wine and cheese selection. Incredibly, all of them seem to have impeccable table manners drilled into them – save for Ginger Dream, who copies Big Kahuna as subtly as he can in the art of folding a napkin across his lap and employing proper cutlery conduct. Said manners led to the second most popular guess, that this is a frat group of boys with rich parents. It had made sense and seemed quite plausible until Irma returned and said she overheard the topic being an upcoming protest for People With Vaginas’ Bodily Autonomy they were planning on supporting.

("So these guys are like, woke ‘n shit," had said Gavroche while pulling a stool loudly across the kitchen to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder, studiously depositing a coin in the swear jar when Grantaire clucked his tongue.)

Éponine – co-owner of his pet project that is the Corinth and trusted friend of two of that merry flock of people – clears up the mystery by saying: "They’re a social justice group Marius fell in with when he went off to join the corporate world of would-be suits. They’re based at the University of Paris. Most of them are students."

"Definitely not a revolution from the bottom-up though, hm?" Grantaire muses as he points out various drapery of the finest quality with a discerning eye. He can spot a fake designer from a mile away – some skills from your teenage years keep with you indefinitely. Nothing at that table is faked. Even Ginger Dream is sporting something tailored exactly to his body.   

"Some of them even come from old nobility," Éponine winks, pointing towards the man previously dubbed Adorable Shining Star – the beauty of the name, Grantaire had explained to Éponine, is that not only does the guy have a killer smile and beautiful dark curls, the acronym of the name also describes his finest feature by far. "That one cut all ties with his family and promptly dropped the title," she says.

"Oh, what sacrifices made in the name of justice," Grantaire feigns melodrama, clutching his chest and pretending to swoon.

Éponine, unlike Grantaire – who could technically also boast of a rich background if he hadn’t been promptly disowned, cut off from further allowance and only just managed to liquidate his trust fund before his parents also froze that resource upon stumbling out of the closet confused and scared at sixteen – actually grew up with considerable hardships. Which is why she says, with a sigh: "They’re good people, all of them. I’ve been to a few meetings. ‘Hearts in the right place’ and all that. But sometimes I just want to wring their necks and scold them for not fully realizing all the privileges life gave them. There’s a lot they don’t fully grasp. Like how they’re 99% rich and upper middle class at the very least."

"Certainly looks like one of them is utilizing the privilege of snubbing my food," grunts Grantaire, chancing another surreptitious glance at Golden God, currently being poked in the side by Bald Babe’s elbow, who waggles his brows as if he just made a terrible joke, to Golden God’s consternation.

Éponine lets out a sound that reminds Grantaire nastily of an aging witch. Ép’s got a low, throaty voice in general, but when she’s feeling vindictive or gleeful her cackle goes even deeper and it never foretells anything good.

"Good luck swaying that one. He’s too intense to unclench for even a second. If he found a reason not to order he won’t budge."

It will not do.

Grantaire hurries out of the kitchen and catches two of the party on the way to the bathroom. "Ah, Grantaire," Pontmercy beams at him, eyes lit-up equally by wine and breathless delight. "Have you finally found a moment to take a breather?"

"Seems so," responds Grantaire, nodding at no-longer-aristocratic-by-choice Absolute Shining Star, currently with Pontmercy. He’s even more adorable up close. "Enjoying everything?"

"Immensely," says the guy with an impish grin, "I do love me some good meat."

Pontmercy blushes, but he blushes fondly. "This is Courfeyrac," he introduces, "My roommate."

"Not for much longer though," Courfeyrac, apparently, laments, eyes blinking rapidly and hands clenched dramatically. "He’s moving in with Cosette after the wedding and then I’ll have to wait a long time until he comes to sleep with me again."

(Ah, right, this is an Engagement celebration, Grantaire remembers. Éponine had accidentally introduced Marius to her old foster-sister as she attempted to win Marius for herself, way back when. It had been love at first sight for those two, and two and a half months of various ice cream experiments for Éponine, who generally takes care not to wallow in misery.)

"Oh my _god_ , Courf," Pontmercy blusters, "That was one time I said that, and I said it at four in the morning after being awake for two days straight, are you ever going to let it go?"

He says it in a low voice that tells Grantaire Courfeyrac brings this up as often as he possibly can. "You’ll have to pry that joke from my cold, dead body, _Pound-me-cy_."

"Anyway, Grantaire," Courfeyrac holds out a hand to shake, "I’m about to empty my bowels for dessert and more wine, but keep doing your thing. I dig it."

Grantaire and Marius both watch him leave, before Grantaire leans in closer to ask: "Why hasn’t the blond guy ordered anything?"

Pontmercy’s head cocks quizzically – Grantaire is oddly reminded of beagles – and then his face clears up into mild embarrassment. A common state of being for Marius Pontmercy.

"Oh," Marius runs a hand through his hair, scratches his nose, bites his lips (Yes, both of them. Lower and upper. Marius Pontmercy is thorough in how he reveals his nervousness.) "That’s my fault."

Grantaire is intrigued.

"He’s vegan – I told him you’d probably have something for him here and didn’t bother to check that we weren’t ordering à la carte tonight and instead got you to make a set menu to make things easier on your kitchen, since we’re already denying you the chance at other paying customers tonight."

That would explain it, yes.

"He came here straight from work and probably as usual didn’t take a lunch break, so he hasn’t eaten since like – seven, I think? Normally I’m scared of him on a good day, but I think he’s really holding himself back from chewing you out for serving animal products with every course because he knows how much this means to me." Marius rambles on, continuing to shift around awkwardly.

"And to Éppie, of course," Marius adds as an afterthought. (Marius is the only person in the world who only gets a painful grimace instead of an ice cold glare when Éponine overhears him using that dreadful nickname.)

"So why hasn’t he just ordered something? We could still make him something, if he’d just say something."

"Likely Enjolras doesn’t want to stress the kitchen staff more," Courfeyrac appears out of thin air – i.e. the bathroom – behind them. "He talked about the inherent exploitation of the restaurant industry and their workers for fifteen minutes on the way here."

Grantaire crosses his arms. That just won’t stand.

+

So, Grantaire isn’t a total asshole. The thought of passing something off as vegan that actually isn’t crosses his mind like a passing freight train, loud and unwelcome. He dismisses it immediately.

The guy hasn’t eaten since seven AM and it’s almost nine PM now. He definitely knows he’d be glaring at inanimate objects too if that was the case for him. (Grantaire loves food, and he jokes that it shows, but skidding past the limits of a healthy BMI is mostly prevented by boxing. Éponine calls him squishy when she hugs him and he tries to feel the warmth she intends with that. Tries being the operative word. Some days being _squishy_ doesn’t feel warm at all.)

As the rest of the group moves onto the second main course of the five-course menu they’ve got planned, Grantaire once more takes to watching, this time within hearing range, as the waitress announces a plate for Golden God.

"The vegan starter course, for monsieur," she smiles. Golden God, no, _Enjolras_ frowns and shakes his head.

"I didn’t order this," he pronounces. His voice is clear, concise, and devastatingly cutting. The waitress smiles, used to this job and all kinds of complaints: "Yes, but our chef doesn’t like to see people go hungry if he can help it."

Enjolras freezes for a second, blinking rapidly as the entire table grins and begins to dissolve into frenzy.

"Looks like we don’t have to stop at a meadow on the way home to let you graze," says Big Kahuna, to which he gets an elbow in the side from Flower Power and a reproving look from Ginger Dream. "I was kidding," says Big Kahuna, rubbing his upper arm with a pout, "You know my girl is vegan and I support that shit wholeheartedly. It makes her taste good and it saves the planet."

"Bahorel is seeing his non-existent girlfriend again," gasps Courfeyrac, "Quick, Joly, do something."

 _Joly_ , previously identified by his staff-chosen moniker of Harried Heartthrob, shakes his head, gravely: "Hallucinations aren’t a joke, you guys. I once envisioned I would be dating the two most amazing people in the entire world and it changed my life profoundly."

Bald Babe and the woman Grantaire calls Sheer Perfection in his head, for the see-through elements in her little black dress, both give Joly kisses.

Enjolras, meanwhile, has not stopped staring at the plate of curry soup Grantaire has created for him.

"What is this?" He asks, sounding upset and genuinely irritated. Louison, the waitress, god bless her, narrows her eyes but remains professional. She’s Grantaire’s favorite by far.

"If you don’t want it I can take it back to the kitchen, but he made it just for you. I tried it, and it’s really good."

Enjolras frowns even more. By now it is more like a scowl. This is heartbreaking. An eternity passes before Enjolras nods and accepts it, stiffly, looking like he’d prefer to throw the dish across the room. Grantaire has to stop watching.

The plate returns, finished and almost polished off, with cutlery placement that high society says means ‘excellent’. Now the question remains if Enjolras did it deliberately. Louison raises an eyebrow towards the empty plate and winks.

"If anything in this world could likely persuade me to give dating a try despite my inclinations, it would be your food," she says.

Grantaire chuckles, "The only thing I’ve got going for me, would be too cruel if I wasn’t at least exceptional at it. Does he want the other courses?"

"I didn’t ask yet, the table isn’t cleared. But I think you’ve embarrassed him."

Grantaire pauses.

"Could you…ask him?"

"Yes, I could," Louison considers. "Or I could fluster him some more. That sounds more fun."

+

Marius and his friends tip like there is no tomorrow and thank Éponine profusely for a wonderful private evening at their place. Apparently, Tall Dark & Handsome inquired about potentially holding their meetings on their second floor. That’s where Grantaire does his other art stuff on the three nights a week the restaurant isn’t open. Éponine, her siblings & Grantaire live on the third floor of the building they bought over a decade ago with the then still untouched entirety of Grantaire’s trust fund.

(Éponine has been working on paying him back half of it, and then complaining when Grantaire invests the money she gives him in something that benefits all of them – like a new fridge after theirs broke last summer and they had to throw out a week’s worth of dairy products, or new beds for Azelma and Gavroche so that they don’t have to keep their bunk beds well into Azelma’s journey through puberty. Grantaire then points out that the money was never his to begin with, and shouldn’t Éponine be sympathetic to sticking it to terrible parents and doing whatever one wants with their money?)

"We could do with extra income," Éponine shrugs, "Not all of them are cut off. Combeferre, Joly and Boss apparently all have wonderful rich parents and would be willing to pay to use the rooms."

"They haven’t got somewhere else to do their doomed activism?" Grantaire wonders as he scrubs dishes and returns Louison’s cheek kisses when she clocks out. Irma left with her share of the tip jar a few minutes ago.

"They did, but some of them got arrested at a protest a few months ago and the University barred them from holding their meetings on their campus grounds like they had previously been doing."

Grantaire sighs, knowing that Éponine has already decided. She gets her way one way or another. Who is Grantaire to actively obstruct what the cruel world will inevitably tear down anyway?

It doesn’t sit well with them, that apparently they believe in changing the world so much that they don’t shy away from the threat of police. Once you’re past that point you can’t ever really stop.

"Yeah, alright," he says, "Go put Gav to bed and pay your dues to Congress. I can finish this by myself."

 Éponine gives him a well-meant punch to the arm, as close as she physically gets ordinarily, and disappears upstairs.

Grantaire works in silence for a while.

A throat clears behind him.

"Have you returned to put me to bed as well?" Grantaire asks Éponine teasingly, scrubbing at a spot on the counter where he spilled some cooking wine earlier.

"Uh," says a voice that definitely doesn’t belong to the sometimes-lovely Éponine. Grantaire turns to see Enjolras hesitating at the door to the kitchen, wide-eyed and confused.

"Uh," agrees Grantaire, with extra feeling.

"I just wanted to - " Enjolras clears his throat, "The waitress wouldn’t let me pay."

"Yeah," says Grantaire, for a moment lacking words when faced with the guy up close. How do you speak to someone like that? His posture is uncommonly commanding, despite the erstwhile obvious lankiness of his body.

"I’d like to pay though."

"Surely Louison didn’t refuse a tip?"

Enjolras furrows his brows, runs a hand through his curls.

"I feel bad for the extra effort the chef put in, he didn’t have to do that," he says. "Can I – Can I at least pay some parts of the meals?"

"Didn’t you like the food?" It blurts out of Grantaire. "I mean, if you just ate it out of guilt that’s shit."

"No," Enjolras protests, vehemently. "It was very…palatable. Really good food. But it wasn’t necessary to put in so much work."

"It’s enough that you liked it," Grantaire insists, crossing his arms. He will not be cowed into accepting extra payment when they messed up the menu and didn’t offer this guy something in the first place. He would have sat through a five course meal his friends delighted in without a word of protest. What a fucking martyr this guy is.

"It really isn’t." Enjolras frowns.

"Look, if you really want to do some good, don’t get arrested while in the rooms Éponine wants to rent out to you for your Impassioned Debating and Angry Ranting group."

Enjolras considers him for a long time, scowl firmly in place.

"At least send my compliments to the chef."

Grantaire snorts.

"I’m serious," Enjolras’ brows impossibly knit even closer together. "With that kind of improvising talent, I dream to think how great this restaurant could be if it were fully vegan."

Grantaire cringes.

"You don’t look convinced," says Enjolras.

"I can’t see this restaurant going vegan. We’re in France."

"Two percent of France’s population avoids animal products to some extent," Enjolras crosses his arms. "They’re a valuable target group."

"And yet," Grantaire wags a finger at Enjolras, "It strikes me that 98 percent is the bigger number."

Enjolras scowls. It looks like his face slides into its natural state when he does. Grantaire gets the feeling that this guy is allergic to smiling. 

"Just tell the chef."

With that demand – because that is definitely what it was, a demand, not a request or a plea – he leaves. Grantaire returns to scrubbing at the wine stain, worked up and at the same time feeling immobilized, struck by lightning. What a guy.

+

Grantaire snaps awake to the sound of the doorbell from hell. It’s just past seven AM, and he went to bed barely four hours ago. Who the fuck is ringing the Door Bell?

It might be Gav or ‘Azel ("Because I’ve got hazel eyes, you guys, really clever," Azelma had rolled said hazel eyes when Grantaire and Éponine came up with that over the breakfast table after a bad night of dejectedly wondering if they might have to sell the Corinth house, years ago when the future still seemed uncertain and Éponine hadn’t officially gotten custody yet), they left for school a few minutes ago and could have forgotten something. But they’ve got keys and, despite Grantaire’s frequent rants under his breath about demon children, they are considerate enough to let him sleep and only sometimes annoy him by crowding too close to him, and even then he knows they don’t do it deliberately. It’s just that with Éponine comes something like platonically raising a ten and fourteen year old together, and he never really expected to take on the role of a father. He’s had years to come to accept that now though, so he rarely feels overwhelmed by the state of his domestic life anymore. 

Point being, the doorbell from hell is probably announcing someone else then.

The door swings open to reveal Ginger Dream from the Pontmercy table. Shortly behind Ginger Dream, Enjolras is coming up the stairs. He stops short when he sees Grantaire, standing at the door in boxer shorts and a hoodie to ward off the November air. He feels angry blue eyes on him and wants to cocoon himself in a million blankets to stop feeling so judged. Yeah, alright, his legs are nothing spectacular, but why does this guy have to make him feel like he ought to take care not to show his ankle lest he be accused of harlotry?

"You must be Grantaire," Ginger Dream nods pleasantly, extending a hand, "I’m Feuilly."

"Good to meet you Feuilly," Grantaire shakes the offered hand, scratching at his stubble with the other hand. "Why are you brightening my door step at seven on a Monday?"

"Éponine said she’d leave a key in the letter box, but Enj overestimated the dexterity of his spindly fingers and we couldn’t get it out. Apparently we should wake you up at our own risk, but that coffee goes a long way in regaining your favor." Feuilly holds up a coffee tumbler.

Grantaire, stunned, blinks, and reaches for it. Feuilly smiles. Who could say no to such earnest eyes? They’d have to be heartless. ("Unfortunately, Grantaire, your heart is big enough to get stuck on everything and anything, even if you pretend it isn’t so," Éponine always sighs wearily when Grantaire feels down about something.)

"Come in, then," he offers, still confused but content to play host anyway.

"I’ve got my first round of work in two hours and Enj here has a lecture at eleven, but someone will come by in the afternoon to continue what we’re starting."

"And what are you starting?" Grantaire asks after the coffee has partially scalded his tongue. That coffee is pretty shitty, probably instant, but it’s better than nothing. He remembers the dark of ages past when instant coffee was a trusted companion and all Éponine and he could spare for their own consumption. French Press was reserved for paying customers back then, brought out for birthdays or Christmas, nothing else. They’ve come a long way.  

"Painting the rooms we’re renting," says Feuilly. Grantaire thinks as long as he can keep his eyes on Feuilly he doesn’t have to whither under the angry glare of the fury behind him, but alas Feuilly moves inside, carrying more cans of paint than a regular, two-armed human being should be able to. This guy is incredible.

Enjolras steps closer.

" _You’re_ Grantaire," he says, severely. Grantaire shrugs. "You’re _Éponine’s chef_. Grantaire."

"The one and hopefully only," responds Grantaire, holding the door open for Enjolras. "Now if you don’t mind, I’m kind of losing valued appendages to the cold here."

Valued appendages that haven’t been properly warmed in months, they’re probably touch-starved for a hand, a mouth, anything that isn’t Grantaire’s calloused right hand, but who’s counting? Not Grantaire. Nope.

"I didn’t know what you looked like -" Enjolras starts once they’re inside, taking his coat off and unwinding a black scarf. Yikes.

"Hey, if I can live with the disappointment, you can too," Grantaire rolls his eyes. Those words sting. It’s not like he doesn’t own a mirror. He knows there isn’t much to work with when it comes to his face. Usually he gets by on charm, but his is an acquired taste, apparently. It requires chipping away the gruff layers of, in no particular order: cynical asshole-ness, gruff skepticism and self-deprecation scantily passed off as humor, to get to the soft core Éponine, and only Éponine, swears is worth getting to know.  

"That’s not-" protests Enjolras.

"Second floor, last three doors on the right," Grantaire says, pointing towards the large stairs and disappearing into the servants’ staircase. Fuck, he really needs a drink.

+

Les Amis de L’ABC do quick and efficient work in the three rooms made available to them on the second floor. He pointedly stays away from those rooms while Feuilly and Enjolras work, put after an hour or so he decides that being a good host-turned-landlord means he’s got to at least try and keep things cordial – which certainly isn’t hard with Feuilly, who doesn’t look like he’d judge anyone for things they can’t help – and so he brings them something to drink.

The sight of a splat of paint on Enjolras’ perfect cheekbone makes him want to leave and throw up, or maybe immortalize the image on canvas. Feuilly, too, is covered in some paint traces that don’t look like they’re entirely accidental. (What does one do with the knowledge that apparently otherworldly deity that is Enjolras is capable of being playful with trusted friends?)

"Hey thanks," Feuilly accepts the lemonade gratefully and Grantaire tries not to feel like a Nineteen fifties housewife bringing workers their drinks while her husband is out and about at work. He can’t wait to tell Éponine about that particular image when she gets back from her day job. She’ll appreciate the ridiculous. Grantaire’s struggles help her unwind.

Enjolras looks at the lemonade skeptically.

"Sorry, forgot I put steak in that, none for you."

Grantaire really needs to learn how to shut up. He isn’t this easily provoked, usually. Feuilly smiles into his drink when Enjolras’ eyes are set ablaze.

"Water, lemon, sugar and mint, that’s it, I swear," Grantaire rolls his eyes, offering the second glass to Enjolras, who finally takes it and has a cautious sip. Asshole.

Grantaire meets Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, previously known as Harried Heartthrob, Bald Babe and Sheer Perfection respectively, when they take over the interior decorating once Feuilly pronounced the remodeling a job well done. Feuilly did a stellar job with the paint and the basic necessary other stuff Grantaire knows little about. The house is old, after all, and since they weren’t really using the second floor they didn’t invest money in it yet. In the distant future it might have become an expansion of the restaurant, but that would be years off. The Corinth house is a long-term project, a lifetime of possibilities.

"What a job it was to convince Jehan not to do it," Musichetta announces with mirth when Grantaire asks why the three of them drew that unfortunate lot as he lingers nearby in the art rooms. "God, I love them, but we definitely would have ended up with at least ten human skulls too many scattered around the place."

"Just to clarify," asks Grantaire, "How many human skulls are an appropriate number of skulls?"

"None," responds Musichetta, leaving no room for the pro-Science argument Joly is dying to make. Grantaire invites them upstairs for dinner and finds that he quite likes the trio. He’s never met someone that successfully poly-amors away (he is told quickly that isn’t an actual word when he points it out), but those three are pretty incredible.

He begins to see what Éponine means when she says all of them are good people. He also insists that while that descriptor ‘good’ also applies to their leader, he isn’t so sure about the ‘people’ aspect of Enjolras the ‘good person’.  

+

Combeferre stops by with coffee of far superior quality one morning to hammer out the details of the contract and coos over Congress in a voice that sounds nothing like him.

"Courfeyrac and Marius have three cats. They’re deciding who gets which ones in the roomie-divorce," Combeferre explains sheepishly when he notices Grantaire’s amused look. "My sisters are all allergic to cats, so I’ve never been allowed to have any."

"Is Enjolras allergic?"

"No," Combeferre shakes his head, "But adopting a cat would leave us awkwardly trying to hedge out which one of us buys the cat food. I think I’d get stuck doing it by default, even if I too avoid meat."

Combeferre looks thoughtful. "I hope Courfeyrac gets the cats."

They go back to the contract.

"Didn’t you say you were a med student?" Grantaire wonders, when the bespectacled wonder guy gets down to business. "Medicine and Philosophy," Combeferre nods as he writes some changes into the clauses.

"But if we left Bahorel to do this the contract would probably include ‘Alexander Maximilien Julien d’Enjolras –Hauteville is forbidden from making veganism a topic at meetings’ in the final copy and then we’d be legally obligated to honor it."

It takes Grantaire one or two seconds to cut past the bone-dry tone of Combeferre’s voice and realize he is joking.

"That’s not really his name, is it?"

"He likes to claim that isn’t what it says on his birth certificate, but his parents would be delighted to assure you of the name’s veracity should you like to call them."

"So, the would-be revolutionary turns out to be a son of the nobility."

"I appreciate the irony," Combeferre shrugs, "Those who do not tend to be left unaware of his origins."

"Isn’t that hypocritical?"

"You mean that he fights for the oppressed though he has tasted privilege most of his life?"

"Yes," Grantaire frowns, "I don’t mean to demean him, not when he means so much to you-"

"I do love Enjolras," Combeferre muses, fond look in his eyes. "And I think the fact that he turned from a life that would have been full of earthly comforts and a valuable social network to use his voice for positive change speaks more to the man than a name and family he didn’t choose."

"You sure know how to make a guy feel bad for voicing an opinion," Grantaire scratches his stubble. Combeferre huffs a little laugh.

"You should listen to him speak at one of our meetings, Grantaire. I think you’d see him in rather a different light."

(He does see Enjolras in a different light, when he sits in the back corner of the meeting pretending to only be there to play dominoes with Bossuet afterwards. The light he sees is blinding though, and he cannot meet the eyes from which it emanates head on. Quick, short glances and nothing else brings already more than enough light to draw him in like a moth.)

Courfeyrac comes to pick Combeferre up – they’re going hiking in the mountains for a weekend – and makes the mistake of asking how his cats are doing when Courfeyrac immediately falls to his knees in front of Congress and purrs at the cat with expertise. Congress sniffs him and meows loudly. Courfeyrac meows back and just like that they’re friends.  

"This is RuPaw," Courfeyrac swipes the photo onto his phone screen, showing a Birman Cream Point him and Marius adopted first, "She’s like twelve now, we got her when she was seven, and I love her."

"This is Deaf Leppard," Courfeyrac shows Grantaire a spotted cat with only one ear and half its face mauled. "He was a stray, and he can’t hear. Marius picked out the name. I’m very proud of him."

"And this is the Dalai Clawma, he’s our youngest, we got him from friends whose cat got impregnated by a stray," Courfeyrac pulls up a photo of an orange tabby cat.  "He’s very calm and balanced, you know? I was going to insist we name him Meow-rius, cause of the hair, but he’s really living up to the name."

Courfeyrac finally yields to Combeferre’s gentle demands that they need to leave once he gets a promise out of Grantaire to have their cats meet up for a playdate at some point.

+

Enjolras in particular spends the most time at the designated rooms, once they are completed, arriving hours before meetings and staying on for ridiculous lengths afterwards, typing away on his laptop furiously. No person has that much work assigned to them, and Grantaire suspects that he does it voluntarily. It makes him shiver.

One night, shortly past midnight, Grantaire stumbles out of his art room, locks it, and sees that the light is still on in the ABC rooms. Enjolras sits, hunched over a desk, scowling as he slams the keys on his laptop in rapid-fire motion.

"For fuck’s sake, _Apollo_ , go get some rest."

"You can’t kick me out when I pay rent for this room," Enjolras retorts flippantly, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"When’s the last time you ate?" Grantaire wonders, leaning against the doorframe.

"Like six hours ago," Enjolras says after throwing a quick, annoyed glance at the clock on the wall.

"You should go home. Combeferre must be worried."

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac are currently pounding one another into the mattress. They don’t want me there and I don’t have much interest in being there and my ears having to partake.”

“You don’t partake?” Grantaire wonders, then racks his brain as to why he thought that was an appropriate question he could ask a man that’s only ever scowled or glared at him. If Enjolras has no wish to bed his partner that is none of Grantaire’s business, and polyamory shouldn’t surprise Grantaire after he’s been spending so much time with the other triad, but it is still always an experience to see it lived openly. “Is that an arrangement you two have always had?”

“That I am not present when Combeferre has sex?”

Grantaire nods.

“Not really. I don’t think he’d mind if I heard, but Courfeyrac is sinfully loud and I can’t concentrate over his moans, lovely though they may be.”

And isn’t that just fascinating insight Grantaire never wanted to have? Well, he did ask. But still.

“You should get some rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “At least eat something.”

“I didn’t bring anything.”

One heavy sigh later, Grantaire finds himself in his own kitchen, doctoring up a vegan sandwich as best as he can muster at such an hour. He’s got falafel leftover that will have to do. Enjolras’ jaw slackens when he hears the plate being pushed towards him. He takes a deep breath and Grantaire can see the way his mouth figuratively waters. For good measure he pushes a glass of lemonade along as well. Enjolras didn’t ask for more that first time he brought them something to drink, but he did have the straw in his mouth long past finishing the glass.

“You didn’t have to-“

“You might just say thank you instead,” Grantaire rolls his eyes as leaves.

+

In the morning Grantaire finds Enjolras passed out on the couch. He clears away the dishes and throws a wadded paper ball of earlier, discarded speech drafts at the guy’s head.

“It’s Monday, you’ve got a lecture in an hour.”

Enjolras blinks awake, confused. His voice is barely above a croak when he says: “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire is already busy dismissing, when Enjolras protests once more.

“Not just for the wakeup call,” Enjolras gets up, distractedly sniffing at his armpits and deciding that apparently the t-shirt isn’t unbearable once he gets his hoodie on top of it. “For the food last night as well, and all the other times. You’re right, I should have just thanked you.”

“You’re welcome, Apollo,” Grantaire feigns bowing. Enjolras goes back to scowling. The world is right once more.

+

Bahorel and Jehan aren’t around so much at the start, mostly because Bahorel claims to have a long-distance girlfriend he visits in Hawaii with his parent’s money. He does always return looking tanner than usual. Grantaire doubts the guy just goes to have vacations on his own, but it seems to be a running joke amongst Les Amis, since apparently they’ve never met her. He stays in Hawaii for extended periods of the year, because: "Enjolras would kill me if I kept flying so much. He’d rather have me miss a thousand meetings. Not like I’m much more than protest muscle anyway." Which is a complete lie because Bahorel at meetings is the most valiant defender of intersectional feminism Grantaire has ever seen.

Jehan, whom Grantaire had dubbed Flower Power that first night, starts showing up frequently though, once they officially meet Grantaire at that first meeting he attended at Combeferre’s behest. They start showing up at random hours of the day, using the room to write poetry and talk to Grantaire about the dreadful state of the world. They are also the sole reason why the plants in those rooms have not only not died but are also thriving, because Grantaire is fairly certain no one else spends hours talking to them and reading them the fruits of their literary labors.

(They also make it their mission to make Congress a flower crown the cat doesn’t hate. So far they are unsuccessful but undeterred by meows of indignated protest and not-superbly trimmed claws.)

Enjolras becomes the most permanent fixture in Grantaire’s life. He’s at the house more than Éponine, always sitting solitary in the ABC rooms and typing away if he isn’t reading.

Grantaire takes to bringing him various sandwiches, exhausting his knowledge of vegan cuisine until he relents and takes to the internet for more inspiration. By now Enjolras has taken to uncomfortably thanking him every time. And sure, he always eats the food, but he always looks unhappy about it even if he assures Grantaire it apparently tastes extraordinary. For any other food taster, Grantaire definitely wouldn’t put in that much effort, but Enjolras forgets to feed himself. He’d probably starve if Grantaire didn’t bring him food. He’s doing the world a service, since he’s not actually getting anything out of it in terms of compensations, if scowls don’t count. Enjolras can fight to change it, and Grantaire can fight to make sure he doesn’t die of malnutrition.

("Keep telling yourself that," Éponine cackles and dodges the bread roll he lugs at her across the breakfast table. That one was a reject anyway, he does not mourn it as it lands on the floor and is promptly licked by the cat. "Pretty, passionate activist boys are exactly your type, R.")

Speaking of the cat, it likes Enjolras a lot, apparently. The guy is irresistible even to the animal kingdom. (Bahorel jokes it is because they don’t smell their dead companions on his breath. Joly rolls his eyes and says that cats _like_ the smell of meat on people. Bahorel repeats Joly’s words in a mock-nasal tone that plays on the constant colds Joly gets.) Grantaire goes looking for the cat, calling out the name even though he’s fairly certain cats don’t respond to names like dogs do.

"Congress," he calls coaxingly, coming to a halt when he finds the grey cat perched on Enjolras’ shoulder, its fluffy tail swishing from side to side as it stares at the laptop screen with predatory intent. How that chubby thing managed to clamber onto its current perch is a mystery in itself, but Enjolras either has not noticed its presence or he does not mind it. Congress purrs.

"There you are," Grantaire exhales. The cat has never run away, and Grantaire is fond of the cat even if he won’t admit it. Enjolras looks up, puzzled. "Here I am. I said hello to you when I came in, didn’t I?"

"I meant the cat," rectifies Grantaire.

"Oh," says Enjolras, lifting a hand to pet the being glowering at Grantaire from his shoulder.

The silence is heavy for a while.

"You named your cat Congress?"

"Azelma called the cat Congress, because it too is spoiled, lazy and slow," Grantaire explains, coming closer with the bowl of food for the cat. The cat stares at the food, then back at the screen and, promptly deciding to prioritize, descends down Enjolras’ arm to dig into the food with its adorable pink nose. Grantaire only narrowly avoids a mess by catching the bowl when Congress is just about ready to shove it off the table. Congress meows plaintively. Enjolras regards the cat for a long time.

"Fitting," he finally declaims.

"You should get some rest," Grantaire says, like he always does.

"At the rate you’re pushing me to take breaks you are one step away from getting me re-named Senate," Enjolras retorts, mouse clicking away on the screen.

A beat. "Was that a joke?"

Enjolras hums, but says nothing. Congress munches away, contentedly.

+

Having a restaurant that is only open four nights a week actually leaves Grantaire looking forward to the evenings of work. It prevents his passion for food from becoming a burden, something he has to do, and he is grateful for it.

They close at just past midnight that night, and once more, when he heads upstairs, he finds the lights on in the ABC rooms. This time, Enjolras isn’t working though. He is passed out at the table, softly snoring as his cheek rests on the keyboard. There might be drool. Congress is purring, asleep on his flattened back. The cat gets on Grantaire when it notices him, intent on using him as a transport shuttle to the third floor as usual.

Grantaire sighs, and goes to wake him up. Enjolras startles.

"Wha-"

He blinks a couple of times, recognizes Grantaire, clears his throat and licks his lips. It is fascinating, so Grantaire has to turn away. Grantaire points towards the screen. "Compelling argument you make there," he teases. Enjolras looks at the seemingly endless string of letters with horror.

"Fuck," he says, pinching his nose and rubbing his eyes.

"This is what happens when you don’t sleep. People are supposed to sleep."

"Courfeyrac is over again," Enjolras explains petulantly.

"And there are comfortable couches right in these very rooms on which you may sleep," Grantaire retorts with a wink. Enjolras scowls.

"Tell you what," he says, "You go to sleep now and I’ll make you vegan pancakes for breakfast."

He chooses to take that as a compliment when it gets Enjolras onto the couch quicker than anything. Apparently the guy doesn’t dislike his food after all. Go figure.  

+

Enjolras comes up the stairs to the third floor hesitantly. It’s mostly open-plan, in that the kitchen, living room and library are all visible from the top of the stairs, so there isn’t an apartment door to speak of, but the bedrooms are separate rooms at the end of a long corridor Grantaire was told used to house the servants.

"I changed my mind, you’re not getting anything," Grantaire hisses at Congress when the cat chews on his big toe before moving on to being nice to the kid.

"I’ll just go back downstairs then," retorts Enjolras, awkwardly. Grantaire notices him for the first time, looking less-worn but also miraculously even less put together. No dark circles, but no control over his hair either.

"He was admonishing Congress," Gavroche explains, pointing at the cat and then kicking a chair out for Enjolras. Éponine rolled her eyes but relented when both Azelma and Gavroche teamed up to say they wanted rolling chairs for the kitchen table. ("You don’t even have to get up to get to the fridge, please, _please_ , Ép," Gavroche’s pout had done it.)

Gavroche is at home with a stomach bug, and he’s already mostly slumped over the kitchen table, whimpering miserably, while Congress licks his short, stick-like legs. Éponine is at work and Azelma has school.

"Good morning then," Enjolras amends, red-cheeked and adorable.

"Bad morning," Gavroche whines, lips pouting, "But you can tell R that pancakes would make me feel better."

"Don’t pull him into this, I am under strict orders to ply you with banana mush and nothing else," Grantaire retorts, focusing intently on flipping the pancakes so that he doesn’t keep staring at Enjolras with sleep-tousled hair and a t-shirt almost slipping off one shoulder to reveal marvelously lick-able collarbones.  "Have a seat, Apollo," Grantaire adds.

Enjolras does, and lets out a delighted sound Grantaire suspects he only allows himself to make because he is still decaffeinated when he spots the Cashew milk next to the French Press.

"I didn’t know how you take your coffee, thought I might as well get you something in case taking it pure disgusts you. I’m told that one has the creamiest taste."

"You haven’t tried?" Enjolras wonders, pouring in a generous amount and sighing happily when he has a sip. Grantaire shakes his head and Enjolras holds out his coffee cup in response. Grantaire has a sip, raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

"Well?" Enjolras looks excited.

"I’ve never had coffee with milk before, can’t compare, but it isn’t bad."

"You drink it black?"

"I drink it with brown sugar and cinnamon," retorts Grantaire.

"Café de Olla," Enjolras nods, sagely, and it shouldn’t sound so seductive when said in a bland tone of voice with no inflection at all, and yet...

 Gavroche wimpers and lets Congress, who loves the kids of the household more than he’ll ever love Grantaire, onto his lap, sneezing onto him, and then worriedly inquiring if cats can contract stomach flu. Ah, to be ten once more and worry about such trivial things instead of the thoughts which plague Grantaire at night.

 Enjolras, despite his lanky form, devours food as though his stomach were the storage unit for the entire continent of Europe. He looks apologetically at Grantaire when he realizes just how much he ate. It’s amusing, he can’t deny it.

"Sorry," says Enjolras, ducking his head, "They’re really good."

+

It becomes sort of a regular thing that Grantaire wakes Enjolras up from the couch on Mondays. "Doesn’t Combeferre miss you at home?" Grantaire jokes as he presents Enjolras with vegan French Toast he is sort of proud of.

"Courfeyrac and he are talking about finally moving in together now that Marius decided to have more cats with Cosette and Courfeyrac gets to keep the ones they already adopted. I thought I might talk to you and Éponine about moving in. The second floor has so many rooms that aren’t being used…what?"

"You-" starts Grantaire, stopping and considering that he may have miscalculated gravely. "Aren’t you with Combeferre?"

Enjolras scowls. "No." Oh. Then: "Did you think I was?"

"Well, yeah," Grantaire shrugs.

"I remember telling you about him, Courfeyrac and their bedroom shenanigans."

"Those two also kiss you pretty regularly," Grantaire points out. "I figured that was as far as you were willing to go with significant others."

Enjolras flushes, shakes his head.

"No," he says, "I’m single, always have been, but theoretically willing to go further."

Grantaire stares at him. Enjolras stares back. Grantaire leaves with a noise that he hopes sounds vaguely encouraging and not as panicked and flustered as he feels.

+

"So," Éponine says at the breakfast table one Sunday morning, "Enjolras tells me he talked to you about moving in?"

Grantaire puts his coffee cup down. It’s more of a brunch that they’re having, and he has to be down at the restaurant in just a few hours to start prepping for tonight, but this demands rectification. "No, Enjolras said he’d _thought_ about moving in here."

"Oh, you don’t think you guys are at that stage yet?" Éponine cackles into her coffee when she realizes those words pique interest among _their_ kids.

("Ép," Gavroche had asked once, when he was five and found them cuddling on the couch, "If you’re our mom now, is R our dad?"

What had followed was a long-overdue conversation about sexual orientation with him and Azelma and just what role Grantaire would be playing in their lives. Sometimes Gavroche still likes to freak potential hookups he doesn’t deem worthy out by walking up to Grantaire, tugging on him and calling him Papa. Demon child, Grantaire will think half-heartedly. But if Gavroche doesn’t approve of whomever he’s got in sight, he’s usually right to. Gavroche knows people.)

"I knew you liked Angel-ass," Azelma beams, then rolls her eyes and tosses a coin at the swear jar. "Is he going to be Dad number two? He’s pretty."

"He is pretty, but he’s not interested in me."

"He eats your food," Gavroche shrugs. Grantaire narrows his eyes at him.

"What are you saying?"

"People only eat your food when they _really_ love you." Gavroche grins at him and also has to dodge a bread roll. It’s a joke, he knows, but it still makes Grantaire want to flinch. Food is the only thing he’s got going for him.

"Nothing is going on between Enjolras and me," Grantaire declares, and wishes he wouldn’t hope there was something going on. Éponine knows, she always knows and it is pointless to hide his feelings from her, but he hopes he can at least fool a ten year old.

No dice.

"It would be fine with me if you and Angel-ass kiss. He can move in." Gavroche shrugs, digging into pancakes now that his health is back on track.

+

Courfeyrac and Combeferre do move in together, and Grantaire is invited to their housewarming party. Tastefully decorated, but Musichetta has not successfully dissuaded Jehan from bringing them a skull as a gift.

"It’s cool, Chetta, Combeferre will love the medical accuracy of the mold and Courfeyrac appreciates everything I have touched," Jehan dismisses with superb confidence. They are right. The skull is christened and given the name Bob Bonehead. He gets a flower crown that RuPaw chews up within seconds.

"You’re part of Les Amis now, R," Courfeyrac croons into his ear, drunk, "You couldn’t get rid of us even if you tried."

"I am shaking with trepidation," says Grantaire, secretly pleased to be included. Courfeyrac plants a wet kiss squarely onto his mouth, much to Combeferre’s amusement, and calls it the ‘Initiation Ritual’. He even slips him a little tongue.

"You kiss all the boys like that, Courf? I feel used."

"Not just the boys, my friend," grins Courfeyrac, "But I particularly enjoy kissing the pretty ones that can cook."

Grantaire has to actively fight not to frown because he feels like he is being made fun of. But Courfeyrac is the most sincere, genuine person he knows. He probably means it, for some reason. The most recent addition to Courfeyrac’s children is perched on Grantaire’s shoulder, digging her tiny black-and-white kitten claws into his shoulder. ("Ferre named her Jeanne-Paw Sartre, isn’t he the greatest and cleverest and handsomest man in the world?")

Combeferre folds his arms and smiles indulgently, leaning against the counter next to Grantaire. You wouldn’t know he was buzzed looking at him, but earlier he’d been telling Grantaire in great detail about his fantasies of doing it in a library, and he knows Combeferre well enough by now to realize he isn’t so brutally and needlessly explicit while sober.

 "Enj is right, you know?" Courfeyrac leans in to whisper-scream at Combeferre, probably certain Grantaire can’t hear. "He does have beautiful eyes – They’re so warm. They make me think of hot chocolate. I want to drink them."

Combeferre hums and pulls Courfeyrac to him and Grantaire tries not to overthink so he pets Jeanne-Paw instead.

+

Enjolras moves into two rooms on the second floor which Feuilly remodels just as expertly, and gains access to the upstairs kitchen, although he rarely uses it to prepare food, because Grantaire still really likes cooking for him. (He uses the bathroom pretty regularly though, because the shower on the second floor needs to be remodeled and Feuilly isn’t confident that he can do that on his own yet. He’s waiting for Bahorel to come back from Hawaii in just about two months.)

Mostly he likes the small delighted noises that sometimes ease the frown on that ever-serious face.

"I can never get my own cat," Enjolras pouts one morning, as Congress licks at his face after breakfast. Enjolras scrunches his nose in distaste but doesn’t dare dislodge the feline.

"Why is that?"

"I’d have to buy it meat," Enjolras scowls, scratching behind Congress’s ear thoughtfully.

"You could get a guinea pig," says Grantaire.

"Can you cuddle guinea pigs?"

"I’ve never even seen a guinea pig. I’m not convinced they exist," Grantaire shrugs.

Enjolras does not get a guinea pig, but sometimes Grantaire finds Congress sitting patiently in front of the door to Enjolras’ room, tail swishing from side to side. Grantaire will take pity and knock for him and Enjolras will allow the cat access readily even as he fruitlessly tries to figure out who knocked. They seem to like each other.

Grantaire is not jealous of a cat. He isn’t.

+

Grantaire is startled from staring at the no longer completely blank canvas by a knock on the door to his studio rooms. Enjolras enters and stops short, his copy of the Jungle by Upton Sinclair thoroughly thumbed and marked up. Grantaire catches a quick glimpse of the margins and finds them filled with inky annotations.

"I didn’t know you painted," he says, surprised.

"Not very productively, as you can see," Grantaire is dismissive, "Something I can do for you, Apollo? Is it feeding time?"

Sometimes he sells paintings, when he can be assed to get inspiration from the commissions people want. They pay well when he can actually get something done, but he often finds himself reliving the frustration he remembers too well from his try at being an actual artist.

"There’s-" Enjolras shifts from one foot onto the other. "Are you busy right now?"

"Not particularly," says Grantaire, "You still seem to be though." He points at the book, and Enjolras glances at it as though he temporarily forgot its existence.

"I’ve read this fifteen times."

"Alright then."

"Did you know that Upton Sinclair was like the Bernie Sanders of his time? A left-wing candidate that could have beaten the conservative during the gubernatorial election but was ultimately maligned and dismissed as unpatriotic?"

"Is that what you came to talk about?" Grantaire arches an eyebrow. It’s not like he was getting anywhere with this painting. Might as well.

"Yes and No," says Enjolras, still looking at him strangely.

"There is a new vegan place a few blocks from here. I want to go check it out. Do you want to join me?"

"I could eat," Grantaire says against the pounding in his chest and skull. This isn’t a date, he tells himself. This is Enjolras, still trying to cajole him into seeing the virtue of an all-vegan restaurant. He hasn’t told Enjolras yet, but he has added several vegan dishes to their menu after getting them subtly approved at the dinner table, once he felt comfortable enough in reliably making them turn out palatable. Enjolras wouldn’t know, he hasn’t eaten at the restaurant since Marius’ engagement party, and Grantaire isn’t planning on telling him and giving him the satisfaction. Enjolras is too smug already.

"Good." Is Enjolras smiling? No, must have been an illusion, the thoughtful frown is back in place.

+

When Enjolras said ‘place’, Grantaire didn’t expect a bistro smaller than his own bathroom, but the interior is tasteful and the whole green theme is pleasantly aesthetic. The prices, not so much, but that’s alright.

Enjolras insists on sitting down at one of the few tables available, because even though they only use paper wrappings and you can take the smoothies to go in your own mason jar cups (Which – of course Enjolras has one of those, two even, along with metal straws.), why use any paper at all if they’ve got the time?

"Do you have somewhere important to be?" Asks Enjolras when Grantaire comments a redacted version of his inner monologue.

"Never," Grantaire insists, "I might have guessed though."

It’s a nice meal, and Grantaire catches a twinkle in Enjolras’ eyes when he says as much. They’ve got source lists for all their ingredients, which Enjolras actually reads, of course, and the whole selection is without preservatives, everything is made right here, you can even watch it being made. It’s an experience.

"So, that was nice," Enjolras says, once they’re on their way back. Grantaire agrees non-verbally. "It’s always great when new places like that pop up."

"Won’t last long though," Grantaire says and then wants to take it back immediately because Enjolras stops short, eyes narrowed.

"Why do you say that?"

"Look, Apollo, it’s good food, that much is true, but places like that never stay open long around here, that’s just the way it is," Grantaire shrugs.

Enjolras folds his arms across his chest, looking angry. There goes a nice afternoon. He was a fool to think they could ever get along in the long run. "All the more reasons to support it and try to keep it open."

Grantaire frowns. "No, don’t get me wrong. I do hope your optimism works out well for you."

"But you’re incapable of sharing it," Enjolras rolls his eyes, "You believe in nothing but that the driving force of all beings is greed and self-interest."

"Not _all_ beings," Grantaire argues pointlessly, stealing a glance at Enjolras. It’s too late, Enjolras has already started ranting. There’s no stopping him now, so Grantaire figures he can at least spend the few minutes of complete attention he gets taking in as many details as possible.

+

Grantaire is cooking when Congress’ claws latch onto his jogging pants and the cat begins climbing up his body like an explorer to find his shoulder. He gets one or two meows into his ear and several licks where he wiped sweat away with a hand still carrying traces of meat flavor. "You’re just using me," he pouts at Congress.

Congress blinks at him, yawning. The stench of cat food hits Grantaire and he narrows his eyes at the cat.

"I did offer to pay you for all the meals you cook me multiple times," says Enjolras, standing at the top of the stairs in pajama pants and glasses when Grantaire turns around. What a sight.

"Cat," Grantaire simply says, because this has happened alarmingly often, enough that Grantaire thinks maybe he should stop talking to the damn cat so much.

"Smells like meat," Enjolras says, deliberately trying to avoid sounding disappointed and failing a little.

"There’s something for you in the microwave," Grantaire reveals and delights in the way Enjolras also fails to keep a little smile off his face.

 "Thank you," he says, immediately heading for the microwave.

They watch a movie after dinner, and Enjolras falls asleep on the couch. Now, Grantaire could wake him up and tell him to go downstairs, but Enjolras is already snoring softly and really, what does it matter?

Gavroche raises an eyebrow at the sleeping blond, and Azelma takes a photo for her snapchat story, giving Enjolras whiskers and cat ears. Éponine says and does nothing. Those three are all not big fans of words in general, when facial expressions suffice.

Grantaire stares at the sleeping Enjolras for longer than acceptable, and then forces himself to head to bed. It’s not new that he’s gone for that man, but it is getting worse. He sees Enjolras pretty much all the time now.

+

"I knew that hoodie didn’t just disappear," Grantaire says when he knocks at Enjolras door with food and the man answers in flannel pants – Enjolras has so many flannel pants, it’s ridiculous – and a green hoodie Grantaire remembers looking for almost a fortnight ago.

At least Enjolras has the decency to look sheepish, running a hand through his golden curls. He isn’t apologetic though.

"I didn’t think you’d miss it," he bites his lip.

"That’s my favorite hoodie," Grantaire points out, "I wear it all the time. If you’re going to steal my clothes, take the red one. That really isn’t my color, but Éponine insisted I get it."

"I _like_ the green one," Enjolras pouts, "It’s fluffy."

And it looks fluffier on Enjolras, who mostly disappears in Grantaire’s clothes. Come to think of it, that green hoodie isn’t the only item of clothing he has been looking for in recent months.

"Yeah, that’s why it’s my favorite," Grantaire says, staring at Enjolras in his clothes and trying to deal. Apparently that is the newest torture the cosmos has decided to punish him with.  

"You can have it back," Enjolras crosses his arms. The gesture belies his intentions.

"Nah," Grantaire says, "Keep it. Looks good on you."

He’s fairly certain he isn’t imagining the blush on Enjolras’ cheeks, but he puts it down to embarrassment.

+

"Why do you reject my love?" Grantaire wails when Congress refuses to continue cuddling on the couch, heading towards the stairs with a loud, excited meow. 

"I wasn't aware I had," Enjolras has the cat in his arms when he answers, drily, and Grantaire looks and finds him not only wearing his green hoodie with fucking sweater paws like a giant fucking dork, but also sweatpants that still have a pasta stain from three weeks ago. For someone who takes laundry duty as seriously as Enjolras - seriously, that's his thing, that is what Enjolras contributes to their attempt at communal living - he really doesn't bother removing stains, does he? Or maybe he didn't wash it at all. 

The silence goes on too long. "You were talking to the cat."

"Yeah." Grantaire says, staring. "Those are my sweatpants."

"Mine, yours, those are all burgeois concepts, Grantaire, and we have to reject them if we want a world worth living in," Enjolras nuzzles Congress and Grantaire really should look away. Enjolras is making jokes. Or maybe he actually means it. If anyone would, it would be Enjolras. 

"Does your brand of socialism include underwear or is it strictly limited to you stealing my only warm clothes because for some reason you like drowning in them?"

Enjolras looks thoughtful, trying to puzzle out if Grantaire is serious. 

"One moment," he says, then disappears with Congress still in his arms. 

"The cat is a living, breathing being that belongs to no one, but you still can't steal it from me, Apollo, you're not that heartless." He calls after him and thinks he hears a snicker from the second floor. Enjolras returns and Grantaire gets a faceful of fabric because the only thing Enjolras could probably throw with something like accuracy would be molotov cocktails, according to Courfeyrac. 

It turns out to be another green hoodie, darker and one he doesn't recognize. 

"That one is too big for me. You can have it."

 

+

"Hey, do you want to go out for dinner tonight? You look like you wouldn’t want to cook right now," Enjolras wonders as he comes up the stairs at six, carrying used plates that have been building up downstairs.

Grantaire is used to that, to grabbing dinner with Enjolras, and he has stopped getting flustered about it. Enjolras, being Enjolras, is too tenacious to give up trying to show Grantaire every vegan place in Paris.

"Sounds good, Apollo," Grantaire agrees, accepting the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher they bought a month ago with the rent from Les Amis.

Dinner is the same as always, but on the walk home Grantaire can’t shake the feeling that Enjolras is watching him more intently than usual.

Grantaire watches Enjolras linger at the stairs on the second floor.

"I…" he begins, then takes a deep breath: "I had fun tonight, Grantaire."

They did manage not to raise their voices above restaurant volume, for a change. Even while talking about the upcoming protests against climate change. ("I agree, it is a disgrace that France is still relying so heavily on nuclear power plants, but we can’t all be Germany right away, that takes effort and lots of money," Grantaire had shrugged and watched Enjolras actually smile brightly. Wow, he had not been prepared for that at all.)

"Yeah," Grantaire agrees, suddenly feeling his stomach twist.

"We could do that again," Enjolras says while looking at Grantaire with intent he cannot figure out.

"Sure thing, Apollo," Grantaire agrees. "Not screaming at one another should be doable at least once or twice a dinner."

Enjolras leans in. Fuck, Enjolras is leaning in. What the fuck is happening? He smells like the vegan bamboo and peppermint shampoo that takes over the bathroom every time Enjolras takes one of his famous five minute cold showers, and Grantaire also catches notes of the organic aftershave Enjolras uses – that one smells like roses and is artisanal, made right here in Paris by an elderly woman who runs an herb shop in the Latin Quarter, but Enjolras does not care about the binary of male vs female scents. His lips brush against Grantaire’s cheekbone, quickly, like he had to work himself up to doing it and is trying to get through it as unscathed as possible.

When Enjolras draws away his blue eyes are questioning. Grantaire doesn’t think his body ever learned how to swallow, because he sure as hell can’t do it now. How do you even forget that kind of thing? Isn’t that instinctual? One tight smile later, Enjolras wishes him goodnight and disappears into his room.

Grantaire lingers at the second floor stairs for a few more minutes, not daring to move.

+

"You said you wouldn’t come," Enjolras says, crossing his arms, when Grantaire appears with reusable bags and thermos tumblers. "You said this was pointless. Have you changed your mind?"

"Fat chance of that, but someone’s got to feed you," he reminds Enjolras, who looks guilty, which tells Grantaire that he did forget food for this all-day protest event. At least there’s a water bottle in his hand. Honestly, how did he survive before Grantaire?

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Grantaire snorts and shoves the bag into Enjolras’ hands.

“You never bring me any food, R,” Courfeyrac sidles up to him, hugging him from behind, laying it on thick. “Why does Enj get special treatment and I don’t? I’m a very special boy.”

“Yes you are,” says Combeferre drily, already pulling Courfeyrac away from Grantaire in the face of Enjolras’ glare.

“Thank you,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Always for you,” Grantaire sighs, resigned to the fact that he will love this man for the rest of his life and suffer in silence.

“Dinner tonight?” Enjolras asks, hesitant.

“Try not to get arrested and I’ll make you something extra special.”

Enjolras tries to hide his smile. Tries. The effort is for naught. Grantaire sees it and thinks about it dazedly, right up until the police move in closer.

+

There’s a balcony included in Enjolras’ rooms, and they eat on that as the sun goes down. It could reasonably pass as a romantic setting. Grantaire repeatedly tells himself not to read anything into it, but it is hard when Enjolras keeps glancing at him and then at his plate.

If Grantaire didn’t know any better he would say Enjolras is nervous.

"It’s really good," Enjolras breaks the silence.

"Well, you didn’t get arrested, so-" Grantaire shrugs, helpless.

"Combeferre tells me I might have been doing this wrong."

"Doing what wrong?"

"Grantaire, do you think we’ve been dating these past months?" He asks, genuinely curious and worrying at his lower lip. After getting over the initial shock, Grantaire manages to shake his head. Enjolras scowls and he feels the need to add: "That isn’t what this is."

Enjolras looks unbearably sad even though Grantaire means to be reassuring. He doesn’t want Enjolras to think he had any expectations, because expectations means he’d have gotten his hopes up – they have been getting dinner very often, but like he said, he isn’t delusional yet. That isn’t what this is.

"Just friends, then? Can we do that?" Enjolras worries at his lower lip, staring at him intently.

"Yeah," Grantaire croaks out, throwing in a smile he hopes isn’t too obviously devastated.

+

Marius and Cosette decide that they want their wedding celebration at the Corinth House. Grantaire is delighted because they'll definitely be making money of that, and he can get drunk and not have to actually worry about getting home. 

"It's genius," he tells Enjolras, who is sitting at the kitchen table with Congress as Grantaire works out how much food they'll have to order for such a big party. Marius gave an initial estimate of about one hundred guests, but since his grandfather got involved - apparently Cosette's father is pretty rich and influential and Marius was promptly no longer a smear on the Pontmercy name despite his arrest record - that number has pretty much doubled. 

"I really don't get the appeal of alcohol," says Enjolras, chewing on a pencil. 

"This people needs no opium, but we do need spirits," grins Grantaire, before passing Enjolras the updated Corinth menu. "Pick something you like, I'm not going through you angrily trying to glare your non-alcoholic beverage to death again."

Enjolras goes strangely quiet as he flips through the pages. 

"You didn't tell me you'd added plant-based dishes."

Grantaire looks up from his work, puzzled. "Didn't I?" 

Of course he didn't. He expected Enjolras to be smug about it if he ever found out, but this reaction is too strange to really process. Enjolras' eyes are shining, but it is not a flame of anger that lights them up. He looks fond. 

Well, Grantaire considers, he did say they were friends. _Just_ friends, mind you. Enjolras made it very clear that he wants that. Grantaire lies awake at night thinking of that evening on Enjolras' balcony. 

"No, Grantaire, you didn't," Enjolras closes his eyes for a second. "You've cooked all these for me before. Grantaire, I can't-"

"Of course you can choose," Grantaire dismisses, "I thought you'd be pleased I followed your advice."

"I am," says Enjolras, "You've made me very happy."

Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that, so he makes a couple of vague, grumbly noises and concentrates on planning a wedding menu. 

+

"You are absolutely useless," Grantaire tells his reflection angrily, when his hair won't fall the way it should. Some days it is alright, but today of all days it has decided to quit on Grantaire. Curls are sticking up everywhere and it frustrates him. 

"I don't know if I'd prefer it if you were talking to the cat or me right now," Enjolras says from the door to his bedroom, one hand poised to knock and his eyes wide. 

"Myself, actually," Grantaire sighs, forced to look away from Enjolras in that suit made just for him. Grantaire has already rhapsodized about it. Made by the angels to show everything fine about Enjolras. Grantaire has long grown out of suits of such quality, last made when he was sixteen. This one is pretty cheap and standard, by comparison. It does its job. 

No, it's just Grantaire's face and hair that won't play along. 

"Don't do that," frowns Enjolras. 

"What, tell my hair how I really feel about its betrayal?"

"Don't talk about yourself like that," Enjolras reiterates, severely. Grantaire feels the eye-roll more than he consciously rolls his eyes. 

"I'm serious, Grantaire," Enjolras says, suddenly closer than ever before, taking his fingers to his hair. "You have pretty hair, don't worry."

"So..." Grantaire distracts Enjolras as he wonders how he is ever going to breathe again, "Who are you bringing to the wedding?"

Enjolras looks nervous again, and that is never a good sign. The man he has come to know over the past year is not a nervous man by nature. 

"I had someone I wanted to ask," he says, "But he's not into me like that, apparently."

"What a fucking idiot," Grantaire blurts out, then wishes he could take it back, because Enjolras looks reluctantly amused. 

"Oh?"

"I mean - " Grantaire tries, for a few moments, to come up with something that won't incriminate him. Then he just gives up. It's not like Enjolras hasn't figured it out by now, if that dinner on his balcony is anything to go by. Might as well make sure he goes down memorably. "Yeah. If he isn't into you like that he's a fucking idiot, Enj."

"You've never called me that before, I don't think," says Enjolras, leaning forward to fix Grantaire's collar and tie as Grantaire wonders what that look in his eyes means. 

"You never said I could," Grantaire shrugs, awkwardly. He's beginning to sweat at the proximity and that is not good. Not good at all. 

"You should," Enjolras decides. "I like hearing you say my name."

Heaven, help me. 

+

It’s late and Grantaire is playing with Congress and a pair of old shoelaces just outside his art rooms. The ABC meeting ended about two hours ago, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were just the last to leave. Enjolras sits down across from him, and Grantaire tries not to feel betrayed that Congress abandons the opportunity to play in order to sniff at Enjolras and bump him with his head. Enjolras offers the cat his hand to bump against some more, and Congress begins to purr deep in his belly. Enjolras presses a kiss to Congress' head and Grantaire stares. Such is life. 

"Sometimes, Grantaire," he says, deliberately nonchalant, "You look at me a certain way and I get the impression that you don’t actually want to be just friends."

Fuck.

Enjolras looks away from Congress and into Grantaire’s eyes.

"I’ve been trying to get over it, Apollo," Grantaire hides his face, embarrassed to be so caught out in it and wholly unprepared. "I can’t help what I feel, but I hope I haven’t overstepped. It’ll go away at some point, I think. You don’t have to worry I’ll try and-"

"I don’t want you to get over it."

Grantaire’s world comes to a stop. He feels his jaw slacken and is keenly aware of the picture he makes right now.

"When I asked you if you thought we’d been dating, I was hoping you had recognized that that’s what I’d been trying to do," Enjolras murmurs, hugging his knees. "Apparently not."

Grantaire can’t speak.

" _Obviously_ not," Enjolras amends. "I’m not very good at this."

"Why the fuck would you want to date me?" Grantaire blurts out, because his brain short-circuits and nothing about this is making sense. "Is this because I make you food? I’m already doing that, I don’t need incentive-"

"It’s because I’m in love with you," frowns Enjolras.

He stares.

"No you’re not."

Now Enjolras looks genuinely angry. "You could have just told me I was wrong about you being interested. No need to invalidate my feelings."

He moves to get up. Fuck, fuck.

"Wait," Grantaire scrambles to his feet as well. "You’re- Why the fuck would you want this? Really? I have nothing to offer you, Apollo, besides the cooking. I’m no catch - "

"You make a habit of selling yourself short, Grantaire," Enjolras berates him. "Relationships aren’t about what you can offer someone else, but even if they were, you bring a lot to the table. I can’t debate with anyone like I can with you, no one can keep up. You’re incredible with the kids, you’re loyal, you’re funny, you’re caring – I could go on about you for hours. If you were to ask Courfeyrac, he would confirm that I have gone on about you for hours."

"Not to inflate your ego beyond reason, Enjolras, but you can still do so much better," Grantaire insists, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt.

"So you do want me to go on," Enjolras narrows his eyes. "Alright, how about this: I love the way you smell after the shower, so much that I always try to time my showers immediately after you and catch some of your presence. I love how your eyes crinkle when you smile, I love how your tongue tickles your teeth when you laugh, I love your lips, I stare at them all the time. I love how you look when you concentrate while playing dominoes with Bossuet - "

Enjolras stops when Grantaire goes wide-eyed.

"I-" Grantaire doesn’t know what words are anymore. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Enjolras," Grantaire closes his eyes to work up the courage he needs, "Can I kiss you?"

He opens one eye hesitantly to see Enjolras smiling at him.

"I wish you would."

Grantaire puts an arm around Enjolras, clad in his green hoodie, and really isn’t that the most obvious sign he overlooked? Enjolras steals his clothes.

Before his nerves can get the better of him Grantaire closes the distance between them. Faintly he remembers Enjolras behaving similarly when he kissed Grantaire on the cheek after that one outing.

Enjolras has wonderful lips that taste vaguely of coconut when he traces his tongue across the seam. He feels fingers dig into his arms and draw away. "Was that okay?"

"Again," Enjolras huffs out before leaning in to attach himself to Grantaire fully, throwing his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and pressing against him tightly. Grantaire feels spindly fingers thread through his mop of hair. He lets it happen. If this is a fever dream, let him never wake up, he pleads with no deity in particular.

"Please say you want to be with me too," Enjolras whispers against his lips. Grantaire, dazed and floating on air, nods.

"I’ve wanted all of you since the first time I saw you."

Enjolras smiles.

+

"Pass the sugar please, Angel-ass," says Gavroche, cheerfully at the breakfast table the morning afterwards. 

"Swear jar, Gav," Grantaire jerks his thumb in the direction of the object, "And I know you know his name."

"Sorry," Gavroche feigns being contrite. Grantaire sees right through it. "Pass the sugar please, Dad number two."

Éponine spits out her coffee, Azelma grins. Enjolras blushes. Grantaire is wholly mortified. 

Beneath the table, he feels Enjolras' spindly finger twine with his knobbly ones. 

"Well - " Enjolras clears his throat. "How do you feel about Michel Fouclaw?" 

What the fuck even is his life?


End file.
